Surviving Others’ Mental Health Crises
My dad was right — We are at the shallow end of the gene pool
When I was 10, my dad, his girlfriend (who is now my stepmom), and I were sitting at the kitchen table in their apartment after eating dinner or playing a game or some other typical activity, but the tone changed. I could sense that we were in for a serious conversation. My dad knew how important seeing him every week was to me, and he had to tell me why I would not be able to see him for a bit. I can’t remember the whole conversation, but what stuck with me was that he said he was going on a sort of vacation. This was the best way he knew to explain this to a 10-year-old.
After he took me home, I asked my mom about it. She told me that he was going to be in the hospital. I asked her what was wrong, and she told me that he needed to stop taking a medication called Valium and that they were going to help him. I sat in her lap, and I cried. I did not know exactly what was going on, but I understood that he was sick, he needed help to stop Valium, and that I would not be able to hang out with him for a while.
This was my introduction to my family history of mental illness. A year later, I had my first panic attack. I was 11 and had no idea what was happening to me. I thought that I was going crazy and was afraid to tell anyone…
